


The Pick in the Ice

by lifeinwords



Category: Everwood
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-14
Updated: 2011-06-14
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:58:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lifeinwords/pseuds/lifeinwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I got the smell of a local man / who's got the loneliest feeling. Future AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pick in the Ice

**Author's Note:**

> Title and summary from Radiohead's 'Climbing up the Walls.' Lines in italics are from Dorothy Parker's 'Theory,' which I used to organize the story.

_and out again_

Ephram chews on his pencil and hates Statistics. They’re evil, nothing but evil. Knock on the door and he can feel the air disappear, the burning clenched feeling return to his chest.

“You have a key,” he calls out.

Door opens, Bright shuffles over to a box in his peripheral vision.

“I didn’t think I…should.” Ephram doesn’t look around, doesn’t make it less awkward. Bright acts so normal, like it’s nothing for him to let it go, move on, and no, Ephram doesn’t want him to stay. He just wants to see that it’s hard for Bright too. But Bright’s always been able to pretend.

“You’re right. You shouldn’t.” And there’s only a half-taken breath, a half-started, probably half-meant attempt, and he’s gone. Door closed, room empty, only him breathing the still-crackling air.

 

 _and thus I go_

“It’s everything! Everything about us is mismatched, and you’re so dependent on your goddamn friends—“

“You never made any effort to get to know my friends! You just hide in here, thinking you’re too good for me because you’re an artist”

“How dare you say that? I have never acted above you. And your friends? They ignore that you’re gay, and ignore your boyfriend too! And you let them!”

“My friends want to be around me. They understand me, they listen; they don’t make everything an enormous fucking issue. You don’t even try, anymore,”

“I don’t try? This from the guy who’s too busy for sex? Who doesn’t even let me”

“You said it didn’t matter.”

“Well, I lied. It does. No, it did. This…this is bullshit. All of it.”

“Are you… Ephram, no. You’re not, you can’t.”

“I can’t. I just can’t. I can’t do this anymore.”

 

 _and hold your pen_

They make lists in their heads.

Ephram rushes home after the game and wonders why he bothered; Bright’s out with the boys. Who never quite see him. They pretend he’s just Bright’s roommate: that they don’t dance or cook or fuck together. He heads to the studio to work.

Bright turns off his alarm on Sunday to snuggle in, but Ephram has a study date at the library. He putters around and considers doing laundry, but decides to join the pick-up game on Victor Field instead. He stays out so long he forgets for a moment why he needs to go back.

Ephram likes running, but he likes running alone. He likes thinking to Wagner, and Bright knows that, even though Ephram can’t remember the name of his favorite band.

Bright just doesn’t know why he knows anymore.

Ephram feels like he lives with a ghost that grumbles and leaves dirty socks everywhere.

 

 _I know_

They go back to Everwood for Spring Break. Together. They stay in Ephram’s old room for as long as they can stand it, which is one night, and then it’s a hotel.

They walk around where the Kissing Bridge used to be; they try to look fondly at the High School. They play pinball and ask Amy how Bryn Mawr is.

They don’t talk about Colin; they don’t hold hands; they don’t fit together in sleep, feet-knees-hips-shoulders, like they do at home.

Bright dreams of letterman jackets and girls with too much eye makeup. Ephram dreams of deer and beautiful people who don’t want what he has to give.

 

 _were ever sung_

The championships are coming up. Bright is gone all the time, it seems, making plans and ‘getting pumped,’ voice too loud and hoarse from practice.

Ephram is composing his first long piece and can barely speak from the fear. He can’t think about anything else, and he’s been living on coffee and vending-machine food for days.

They drop into bed exhausted, smelling of enclosed sweaty spaces that aren’t theirs. On the weekends they try to stay in, focus on each other.

But it always starts out badly, because Ephram sleeps in like the night owl he is, and Bright wants coffee and a Danish at eight.

 

 _were ever said_

Ephram gets silent and sullen when he’s angry. He poisons the room just by being there, and he refuses to look Bright in the eye. Bright slams things around, shouts, explodes in anger and forgets about it immediately afterward. He doesn’t like to analyze it; he just wants to apologize and move on. Ephram prods him, and they learn how to fight.

They learn how to apologize. Bright will hug Ephram until the tenseness drains away, and know that he just needs the attention. Needs to be reminded that he’s loved. Ephram will try to stop picking, stop attacking anything Bright says.

They learn how to make up. And that’s their favorite part, because it means sex on the table, sex against the door, hot and urgent like they can’t let go for a moment.

 

 _when I was young_

“When I was eight, I wanted to play hockey. But I wasn’t very good at ice-skating. And my father was working more then, and he’d given up on teaching me last year. So my mom took me, early in the mornings when no other kids were at the lake. She was…patient. She had hot chocolate with her every time. And she’d hold my hand as I skated around in circles, around and around and around. Then she’d wink at me and say, ‘We’ll show ‘em next year, right champ?’ and I knew we would.”

“My mom knew I hated shopping, so after we’d pick up…I dunno…school clothes or whatever, she’d take me to the record store. She bought me my first Chopin, my first Strauss. Then, after we’d looked at the classical section and I was itching to go, she’d lead me through the other aisles. Talk about the blues she grew up with, the rock in the 70’s, Billie Holliday, Depeche Mode. She suggested The Ramones and the Sex Pistols right after my thirteenth birthday. Said I’d need them in the next few years. I learned from her, well, how to really listen to music.”

 

 _on my head_

Everything is fine, on the surface.

They go out to dinner in nice clothes. Bright even makes an effort to use the right everything. They smile at their plates across the candle flames and chat quietly.

Ephram plays that stupid computer game that Bright is in love with. Bond. He doesn’t think it’s fun to watch, or play and be watched, one at a time. He wants to look at Bright.

Bright drags the covers off of the bed and pulls Ephram down, desperately tugging at his clothes. Ephram can’t stop smelling him, reminding himself that this is Bright, Bright’s body, Bright’s smile, it’s here and now and his.

They keep their eyes closed.

 

 _someone dropped me_

“See? Isn’t it hilarious? Death wants to understand food…God, I love these books. Pratchett’s a genius. A river that’s almost solid, a world on the back of a turtle…” Ephram can’t stop laughing. He’s been reading Bright quotes out of context all evening.

“I just…” Bright doesn’t know how to say it. “I don’t think it’s my type of humor. And I don’t like hearing bits of things I don’t understand. Can’t you just read to yourself? Do you have to share everything?”

Ephram goes quiet. “Sorry, am I keeping you from your Adam Sandler movies? Oh, look at the time. Aren’t you supposed to meet the team for the nine-thirty showing?”

“God, just forget it. You stay home and sulk. Read some more stupid books. I’m going out to have fun. See ya.”

 

 _could it be_

Bright starts leaving things at Ephram’s, even though his room is twice the size. He says he got used to dorm beds, except Ephram doesn’t have a regulation dorm bed, he has a king-sized feather mattress, so he knows it’s really because of him.

And all of Bright’s friends automatically save a place for him at games. Now Bright only has to look up once, to that corner on the left, and he knows someone there can’t keep their eyes off him. Wants him to win with everything inside.

Bright is the last person to touch him, to look into his eyes and say nothing, because Ephram needs quiet before his recital. But Ephram can feel the tingle of Bright’s whispers floating on a breeze from backstage, even though he can’t hear them. Bright cares because it’s him, because he cares about him.

 

 _all the words_

It’s quiet and early, and Ephram wakes snuggled up under Bright’s arm. It’s heavy, and Ephram almost can’t breathe, but it’s wonderful somehow. He looks around the room, different now because it’s not just his. Someone else has slept here, with him, has seen him naked and shaking and it’s real.

He breathes in and looks at the blind-thin lines on the ceiling. Bright has seen these too.

A grunt and twist, and Bright’s seeing him now. Ephram’s hair is on his arm. Ephram’s mouth was on his neck. And Bright’s whispering:

“You know those mountain climbers, like the ones who scaled Everest? They looked up, and it was huge. Insurmountable. But they just…took a step. Swung a pick and carved footholds in the ice that led them higher and higher. Then the air was thin and new, and it was hard. Scary. And they reached the top. Like magic, it just happened, bit by bit.”

Ephram can’t breathe, full of love and want and awe. He wonders how this happened.

 

 _all the songs_

They just fill in the missing places, Ephram told his father on the phone. Bright makes Ephram stop working, go out and watch TV, play darts and mingle and just be silly. And Ephram makes Bright study, think about what he’s reading, focus on getting things done.

In bed they’re smooth like they’ve had years of practice. They can laugh, like that time when Bright fell off the bed. Ephram forgets there’s a world outside of the bed, outside of them touching and tasting because they’re allowed.

Bright goes to class, practice, meals with a secret in his stomach. It’s like saying wow, over and over again. He can watch Ephram play for hours, lost in the angle of his neck, the rhythmic down-up of his foot. Sometimes he has to close his eyes just to hear the music. And Ephram makes his coffee just right. He can lean in and just – feel him – anytime he wants. They sing oldies when they run errands in Bright’s truck, and the sunlight blinds him for a moment.

 

 _well and bitterly_

Ephram thinks he knows. It’s findable in a dozen ways, from Bright’s hand on his shoulder to the hours they spend on the phone. But it’s awkward, the wanting, the waiting. He doesn’t know what to say.

Bright’s always been one to go after what he wants. To act first and think later. So Ephram’s surprised but not when Bright kisses him in his car one night, after they’ve been studying and he’s been driven home.

Ephram remembers stumbling out of the car. He remembers hating the buttons on Bright’s pants. The heaviness of someone taller, older, hairier rolling him over and over. How Bright’s fingers shook as they slid over him.

Bright hates the after. It’s always nervous, and he always has to talk, when he’d rather lay there and remember hair through his fingers, sweat sticking thighs to his, that rolling up-in motion that rarely goes right the first time.

“So what does this, um, mean?”

 

 _spare your voice_

The best part of a new friendship, Bright thinks, is the showing. ‘Here, this is me and what I do.’ That part. Even though they knew each other before, Ephram goes to his games and even asks for some pointers one Saturday. They can jostle and fight with the ball between them, which Bright is pretty sure Ephram knows. But he’s not sure, so he goes over to the music building, waits for Ephram to unlock the door, and listens.

Not just music, someone else’s notes coming out of Ephram. Ephram wrote this, made it, like Bright plans how to move as he’s running down the court, seeing angles and patterns and gliding right through to the hoop.

Ephram wants to know if it’s any good, to anyone but him. He’s been staring at the notes for so long that he can’t tell anymore, and one-on-one with Bright is the only fresh air he’s gotten in weeks. He can hear the harmony falling into place under the thump of the ball, in Bright’s hands flashing out-in as he blocks a shot.

He runs back to the studio and puts it into the computer, and if Bright’s bored or impatient, he doesn’t show it. Then Ephram hits play, and the tinny plinks of the computer playback start. He watches Bright nod, smile, lean in. He doesn’t need to hear the words.

 

 _thus I went_

Ephram takes Bright up on his offer, so they wander down to the coffeeshop, pausing to remember Patty Haynes’ hair, ratted four inches above her head, and the time Mr. Walten accidentally smashed the aquarium and all the frogs got loose.

“So you’re a music major? You want to, like, play piano in an orchestra or something?” Bright actually looked interested, so Ephram shook his head and tried to explain.

“Actually, I want to compose. Play my own stuff, hear other people play it. But it’s a really hard program, and I don’t know if I’m good enough.” Bright grinned.

“Please. You were like, always playing in high school. If it’s like basketball is for me, then you just have to do it. Even if you’ll never be the best.” He made a fake lay-up and turned to Ephram.

Ephram wrinkled his forehead. “I heard you got a basketball scholarship. It doesn’t sound like you want to go pro or anything, though. Why not?”

Bright sighed. He hated having to have everything figured out. “It’s my whole life right now, and that’s okay. It’s my favorite thing. But I’m no Jordan or Johnson. They just…had it. So maybe I’ll coach, or teach even. It just feels free out there, you and four other guys against the world. You know?” Bright stuffed his hands in his pockets and stopped walking. He waited for Ephram to decide. Stay or go. See where it could go or leave it, wave across campus and move on.

“I’m not much of a team player, but I think I get what you mean. Hey, do you wanna, I don’t know. Get some pizza? I’m starving, and you didn’t take much of that slop in the dining hall. You can tell me about the profs to avoid, the cheapest restaurants and stuff.” Ephram tilted his head and hoped he didn’t sound too desperate, too anything.

“Sure.”

 

 _into love_

Food service was hell. Ephram had determined this on his first day in the dishroom, where he wasn’t even unlucky enough to have to interact with his fellow students, who would just snicker, or upperclassmen, who would change their orders, steal the utensils, and basically make things difficult. It was his second day in the burger line, doing his rotation like all of the new employees. At least the burgers didn’t wreck his hands. Playing was a lot harder when your skin was peeling off. But his father had told him he’d be responsible for his own spending-money, and the dining halls were always hiring.

“What would you like,” Ephram asked for what had to be the two-hundredth time that night.

“Ephram?”

“We have hamburgers, cheeseburgers, meatless burgers, chicken burgers,” Ephram looked up. And immediately dropped his first plate, which made a crash far louder than it should have, echoing off the tile floor and around the tables. Heads craned to see, and applause started. Ephram knew he was blushing.

“Bright? Bright Abbott? I knew you went here, but…” I’d never expected to see you after high school, he didn’t say.

Basketball jacket. Hair cropped closer. Body filled in, face grown into. Ephram swallowed as he felt a tingle of interest start in his stomach. Now wasn’t that a bad idea.

“Yeah, I don’t come into the cafeteria much. What are you doing here? Don’t tell me you work here?” Bright was holding up the line, but he didn’t seem to notice. He just leaned on the counter like it was his own personal space, and Ephram cursed whatever god had given him a monosyllabic BioChem major for a roommate. Two months into school, and this was the best conversation he’d had outside of class.

“Um, yeah, I do. And you’re holding up the line. So, maybe we could…” Ephram turned to get another plate.

“Dude, we are so talking afterward. We’ve got to catch up! I’ll show you the ropes, hear how the home-town is doing. And you can take off the hairnet, because believe me, it does nothing for you.” Ephram blinked. Had Bright just…complimented him? Flirted with him? He itched at the back of his neck, where the fibers rubbed him wrong.

“Right. Well, I get off in an hour. If you want to wait.”

“I’ll be here.” Bright grinned, and Ephram wondered what he was getting himself into.


End file.
